That Never Felt a Wound
by Grace Macy
Summary: The paramour of one of the 'bad' guys reflects on their relationship during Season One. (1/1)


> **Disclaimers:** Characters and concept of _Angel_ are property of Joss, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. Original characters and concepts are property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended. Story title is from Romeo's line to Mercutio in _Romeo & Juliet,_ about the pain of being in love: "He jests that never felt a wound."  
  
**Spoilers:** _Blind Date_ and _To Shanshu in L.A._  
  
**Author's Note:** This story is set during and between the episodes listed above. I guess this started with Holland's comment about Lindsay and 'healthy relationships'; the imagery popped into my head recently and wouldn't let go, especially when I listened to the Ani DiFranco song "[Sorry I Am][1]." . . . Okay, so maybe I'm _marginally_ obsessed with Lindsay right now. This is what happens when I go on vacation at mom's place and the last ep I see is "Reunion," which leaves me with a serious yen to smack Angel upside the head (see dragon's silly-fic, "[Tangled Web][2]") and an even more serious feeling of sympathy for Lindsay. I'd obsess over Riley, but I kinda wanna smack him too. g

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_That Never Felt a Wound_

© 2000, Grace Macy  
  
  
  
  


> It was night when he came to her. It always was, always had been.  
  
At first it was a joke between them, that night was the only time he wasn't being kept busy by Wolfram-Hart. They had even met at night. He was just starting at the firm then, and he'd stopped in at the coffee-shop she herself frequented, to grab something to eat before finally heading home. Their flirtation had almost been pro-forma, just a little laughter to lighten the velvet night that hung outside. But he came back the next night, looking just as exhausted, and extremely thankful that it was a Friday so he could sleep in the next morning.  
  
She had given in to attraction and sympathy, and paid for the chamomile tea she told the waitress to bring him instead of his requested coffee. They'd ended up talking until closing came at 1 a.m., and then a few hours more, nearly until dawn. They didn't really have that much in common, but it seemed to be enough. Everything seemed to be enough then, even when they barely saw one another more than twice a week. They spent their time together laughing, joking, and finally trusting. They made love after knowing one another barely a month, a record for them both, and after that everything seemed to glow softly.  
  
But then his workload increased, almost doubling, and things started to change. They still saw one another, still spent the night together, and spoke in murmurs of confidence . . . but he grew more distant, his answers shorter, the light in his eyes dimmer. Their rendezvous became more sporadic, their love-making somehow harsher. The tenderness was fading away, although sometimes it seemed to her that he needed her _more_ now than ever before.  
  
Sometimes she was asleep when he came to her bed, slipping through the apartment with the silent ease of long practice. Like almost three months ago, when he had laid down behind her, pulling her into his arms, waking her with slow caresses that became fierce passion. It had been intense, mind-shattering, but it wasn't the same. His arms wrapped about her afterwards, nearly crushing her to him, and she could feel him shaking. She had tried to turn, to take him into her arms and offer comfort, but he released her and sat up. Then he'd reached for his clothes, and she called his name quietly until she realized he wouldn't answer.  
  
So she had watched him dress, not even acknowledging her presence, until he stood. Then he had paused, and turned to look at her over his shoulder, and she saw the emotions in his eyes. The fear, the hurt, and anger, and uncertainty. She had been able to understand only part of one, but none of the others. Then he had leaned down and cradled her face in his hands, and laid a gentle, tender kiss on her forehead. It had seemed so like a goodbye that it had frightened her. She had whispered his name in question, but he had just smiled softly and shaken his head. And then he had left, still silent, and it had been nearly two days before she heard from him again.  
  
He had shown up at her door, actually ringing the bell this time, and she had been shocked at the bruises on his face and body. He refused to tell her what had happened, saying only that they were work-related. She had guessed what that meant, but hadn't asked. But the bruises had been on his soul as well. She could tell that when they made love that night, as desperate as the time before, but not as powerful. As if it wasn't fear overwhelming him now, but hurt and guilt.  
  
He'd been promoted, he told her, but he hadn't been particularly happy about it, not like she would have expected him to be. Not that he had said so, or even implied it. It was in his voice, but there was a coldness there too. Like he had just proven something to himself. She hadn't known what to say, so she had just held him and kissed him, tried to ease the pain she could still sense, lingering in shadows behind his eyes.  
  
The shadows got worse in the days and weeks that followed. He never stayed the night now, but left almost immediately after they made love. And even that term didn't seem to apply now; there was less and less tenderness in the act, and more possessiveness in its stead. He was still an attentive lover, bringing her with him into earth-shaking climax, but there was no true feeling. It was as if he was building a wall around himself, one she couldn't quite break through. It created an echoing pain in her heart, a sense of loss and loneliness, even though she still saw him. He was never quite _there_ anymore when they were together.  
  
She confronted him about it one night, when he had slipped into bed with her again, only to pull away when they had both reached amazing climax. This time, at least, he had lain back for a while, exhausted by the act. She leaned up on one elbow, looking down at him with a soft frown of concern and confusion. He turned his face towards her at the gentle touch of her hand on his brow, but his eyes were shuttered. Quietly, she asked him, "What happened to us, Lindsay?"  
  
He frowned at her. "What do you mean?"  
  
She sighed. "We used to be so much closer than this." She brushed back his hair gently, almost wistfully. "When was the last time we talked? Not occasional phone-calls or notes about dinner, or work-schedules, but really _talked?_ When was the last time we spent more than an hour together?"  
  
"I can't skip out on my job in order to spend 'quality-time' with you. I have a heavy case-load, a lot of work to do, and a lot of --"  
  
"New responsibilities," she completed. "I know. You've told me, and _I've_ told me. But this isn't about quality-time, and you know it." She sighed and sat up, letting the sheet fall about her waist unheeded as she looked down at him, her gaze open. "You come here, and you fuck me, and then you leave. What's happening to us, Lindsay? We used to spend the entire night together, wake in one another's arms in the morning. We used to kiss, and touch, and . . . and love. Trust."  
  
"And now we don't."  
  
It wasn't really a question; she didn't try to pretend that it was. "No," she answered frankly. "We don't." Her gaze locked with his and she asked him quietly, no accusation in her voice, "So I ask you again. What's happening to us, Lindsay? What am I to you now?"  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, then paused, and for an instant she saw through the walls to the injured soul still hiding within. Then the barrier sealed itself again and he said, almost coldly, "There is no us. There hasn't been for a while."  
  
She was silent for a long moment. "And my other question?"  
  
"You mean, what are you to me now?"  
  
She nodded. "Yes."  
  
His eyes bored into hers, then he sat up and turned away from her. "Nothing."  
  
She stared at him, hurt welling up in her heart and then almost instantly turning to ice. Hatred. Contempt. "Is there someone else? Is that it?"  
  
He laughed softly, coldly, and stood up, reached for his clothes. "There's no one else. Things have just . . . changed. We're not who we were, before."  
  
Her voice was bitter, filled with hurt that had turned to rage. "What, because you're a junior partner in the damn firm now?"  
  
He glanced at her and shook his head. "No. Not because of that." His eyes were suddenly open to her, and his voice was unexpectedly candid. "Things have been changing for a while now. Couldn't you feel it? I -- you -- we _both_ need just need different things now. We see things differently, feel them differently . . . or not at all."  
  
She stared at him. "Is that what you think?" she asked, stunned and hurt. "That I don't feel things?"  
  
"Not you. Me. Or maybe . . . I don't know. But I know it's not enough now. What we had. It's over. It's gone."  
  
"And that's it? You're just going to throw it away, like it never even existed?!"  
  
He started to answer, then chuckled and shook his head. "Did it?"  
  
Some part of her knew he was doing it to hurt her, but she didn't care. It still stung, still made this new hatred burn brighter in her heart. So she sneered at him, when what she wanted to do was cry. "I guess not," she answered. "You're a good fuck, Lindsay. But really, what else do you have to offer? You don't even have enough of a soul, or a brain, to keep lying."  
  
He shook his head again, and padded silently to the bedroom door. "Maybe I have too much," he murmured. Then he paused at the door and turned to look at her, stare at her for a long moment, as if to memorize the image of her sitting on the bed, sheets in a loose tangle about her hips, soft light falling across her body and making her into a vision of fair-skinned beauty. Then he ruined it with a smile that seemed cold and almost leering. "It's been nice."  
  
She glared at him. He was half-dressed now, shoes and shirt dangling from one hand, the soft street light falling on the beautiful planes of his body. God, but he was lovely. It made her hate him all the more, that he could make her blood stir like this even after what he had just said. It would be worse later, she knew, when she had to see him again and again nearly every day. So she made her voice cold, to match her heart. "Good night, Lindsay. Get the fuck out of here."  
  
He nodded, and stepped out of her bedroom, closing the door behind him. As it whispered shut, she thought she heard him say, almost regretfully, "Good night, Lilah."

  
  
  


_end_

  
  
  
  


> **Author's Note #2:** Ha! You thought it was going to be a 'Mary-Sue', didn't you? eg Well, I confess, it was going to be an original character, up to about 3/4 of the way through writing it. Then I heard Lindsay's voice saying the last line, and I went "Ah-_ha!_ That explains everything!" By that, I mean what we've seen of the changes in Lindsay and Lilah's interaction onscreen -- from casual flippancy to all-out, extreme antagonism. It had to have come from somewhere, so why not this? -) After all, the saying about "Hell hath no fury" is very accurate. 

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/sheshat/fanfic1/buffy/sorryiam.htm
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/sheshat/fanfic1/buffy/tangled.htm



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